


blinding passion

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: the fan-maker and the fan [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Era, Disastrous Flirting, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Minor Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire, Miscommunication, Multiple Attempts at Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25200910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: “But, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says seriously. “You know of the state of affairs. You have to help.”So far, their combined efforts to get Feuilly and Enjolras to realize their feelings for each other have ended in unmitigated disaster. Courfeyrac longs to simply bang their heads together and let them figure out for themselves, but the fact remained that the two had been friends for a year and a half, and visibly pining away for each other the whole time. At the very least, both of them had sensible constitutions, and did not acquire any diseases or die from heartbreak during that time.“Jehan will help in my place,” Combeferre says. “I leave him in your capable hands."
Relationships: Enjolras/Feuilly
Series: the fan-maker and the fan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815292
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	blinding passion

**Author's Note:**

> The events depicted in this work happen after [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24960211) and [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25064830).

It’s not as though Courfeyrac _enjoys_ getting dragged along with Combeferre to look at the new batch of corpses on the market. He doesn’t particularly dislike the experience either. But would it be too much to ask for some previous notice?

Jehan has tagged along on this particular shopping venture, seeking either to acquire a skull for a dramatic recital of Hamlet or to prove his worth as Combeferre’s partner, Courfeyrac isn’t sure. _He_ , at least, doesn’t seem to be bothered by the sights and smells around them, and practically leaps into the air with joy when Combeferre asks his opinion.

“Well, what do you say?” Courfeyrac says bracingly, trying to turn the conversation back to the subject at hand. The handkerchief he holds to his nose muffles his words somewhat, but surely Combeferre knows how to deal with that particular problem.

“I regret that I’m far too busy to play matchmaker to our friends at this point,” Combeferre says, and he doesn’t look regretful at all. “My examinations are coming up, as you very well know—”

“—He _has_ had no spare time as of late,” Jehan says, his voice accusing, and he squeezes Combeferre’s arm. He bends to whisper in Courfeyrac’s ear. “The nerve of this man, to declare that today we are doing something fun and then drag me to the dissecting-parlor to steal half a lung. Half a lung!” Jehan shakes his head.

“I can hear you,” Combeferre mutters, examining a corpse for bloat.

“But, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says seriously. “You know of the state of affairs. You have to help.”

So far, their combined efforts to get Feuilly and Enjolras to realize their feelings for each other have ended in unmitigated disaster. Courfeyrac longs to simply bang their heads together and let them figure out for themselves, but the fact remained that the two had been friends for a year and a half, and visibly pining away for each other the whole time. At the very least, both of them had sensible constitutions, and did not acquire any diseases or die from heartbreak during that time.

“Jehan will help in my place,” Combeferre says. “I leave him in your capable hands. He is enthusiastic and dedicated to the cause, and he has the worst fashion sense I have ever seen. I trust you will work well together.”

Jehan grins and lets go of Combeferre’s arm, taking Courfeyrac’s instead. Courfeyrac is immediately steered away from the market by the time he has the chance to wave a goodbye. Jehan walks fast. His slippers, pointed at the ends and curled on themselves, must be comfortable.

“So, we are conspiring to get Enjolras and Feuilly together?” Jehan says, completely serene as the two of them barrel through the streets.

“Yes. I thought you swore an oath of non-interference?” Courfeyrac says, trying to remember the last time anyone asked Jehan for romantic advice. He remembers, dimly, the poet flouncing across the room and demanding that no one interfere with the course of True Love and Destiny and the Infinite Presence.

Jehan shrugs. “Some people need a little nudge.” He pauses. “Or a shove.”

“They might need a shove,” Courfeyrac says, despairingly. He recounts the tales of their most recent attempts, which involve a horse, a handkerchief (Marius’ idea, and Courfeyrac had just humored him), and some laudanum liberated from Joly’s extensive cabinets. Jehan clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“We need something more exciting. Many romances have formed because of life-threatening situations.”

Courfeyrac frowns.

“We should bury one of them alive.”

“No!”

“But—”

“—No!” Courfeyrc lowers his voice, mindful of the people in the street. “We are not burying anyone alive!”

Jehan frowns and closes his mouth. “There would have been air holes,” he mutters. “And I would have provided my shovel.”

“It’s completely irresponsible, people could be _killed_ —” Courfeyrac pauses. “Why do you have a shovel?”

Jehan waves it off. “Unimportant. So, very well, no mortal danger, since you seem to be opposed to it. You’ve locked them in a room?”

“Many times.”

“In a closet?”

“We tried that. It turns out Enjolras can pick locks. He was very grumpy about it.”

“Hmph.” Jehan frowns. “Perhaps we could bring Enjolras to Feuilly’s place of work.”

“There’s nothing life-threatening about an atelier, Jehan.”

“No, no, but seeing a person at their place of work can have certain, ah, effects, shall we say.” Jehan is blushing now. “I’m sure the sight of someone hard at work and concentrating on detail can, um, bring certain emotions to the surface, you know.”

“Scandalous.”

The blush has spread from his cheeks to his ears. “I know.”

“So, you and Combeferre—”

“—Shut up.”

-

“Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

“Perhaps.”

Crammed into a forgotten shadowy corner of the atelier, Courfeyrac sticks his head out and prepares to watch the drama. Jehan, whose doublet and turban blend right in with the gaudier fans, covers his face and peers through his hands.

The day had been going so well. Courfeyrac walked Enjolras past Feuilly’s atelier, passing the act off as another change of route, and making a passing comment about Parisian fashion. They spoke a while with the students of the law school, examined the pamphlets at a print shop, and purchased lunch. On the way back, they dropped in to see Feuilly and admire his work.

Feuilly had never mentioned that most of his coworkers were women. Courfeyrac had simply assumed, and he rapidly regretted that action. He had deliberately made a lot of noise when he entered, assuming that they both had to do something drastic to get Feuilly’s attention.

In a way, he had accomplished that particular objective. Feuilly’s eyes were on Enjolras. Unfortunately, so were everyone else’s, and Courfeyrac was certain that he could see _interest_ in the women’s eyes.

If only Enjolras didn’t have such a pretty face.

A woman with black curls and large sleeves approached them first, eyes only for Enjolras. She gripped several newly-painted fans in one hand. “May I help you, Monsieur?” she asked, flirting the fan back and forth. “Perhaps a fan for your lady-love?”

Enjolras sported a look of polite confusion on his face. “Um, no, no, thank you—”

“—because if it is, I paint the best flowers, if that’s what you require.” She steps forward and spreads the fan in front of her face. “I’m Juliette.”

Two other women stood up and introduced themselves, talking about the latest fashion, and how much love and care goes into painting each one. They crowded around Enjolras, casting glances and brushing hands. Feuilly kept working, his head bent to hide his eyes. Courfeyrac despairs.

“No one would look askance at you having multiple… _fans_ ,” one of them said. Therese, Courfeyrac thinks her name is. She smiled at Enjolras and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Um, no, I do not…um.” A bead of sweat formed near Enjolras’ temple. “I do not have…a fan. Yet.”

“Well, then!” one said, throwing her head back and laughing. “We help the poor boy choose a fan!”

Courfeyrac excused himself after that. He thinks no one noticed.

“This is a disaster,” Jehan whimpers. “Courfeyrac, make it stop.”

“I can’t.”

Jehan lets out a mournful sound. Across the room, Enjolras is still fending off the advances of the entire atelier, with the exception of Feuilly, who continues, implacably, to assemble the fans.

This plan is not a success either.

-

“We need a new plan,” Jehan says, before Courfeyrac can.

“Obviously.” They were both getting quite desperate. Combeferre had not come back from the clutches of the medical school, a fact that they both despaired over. “The question is, what?”

“We need an intimate setting. You’ve locked them in rooms before, but not with much incentive to talk to each other. I think that’s an important component.”

“They would talk to each other without inducement.”

“Ah, yes, but not about each other. We need to motivate them to talk about _each other_.” Jehan slaps the table. “We need to get them drunk.”

-

Enjolras drunk is a spectacle, and Courfeyrac is extremely proud of himself for introducing it to the world.

Enjolras, dazed smile on his red face, drapes himself over Courfeyrac’s lap and pulls experimentally at one of his curls, giggling as it springs back to position.

“Boing,” he whispers, and does it again.

“Okay, Enjolras, that’s enough,” Courfeyrac says, doing his best to shove Enjolras off his lap. He sprawls on the floor and gazes lovingly across the room.

“Are you looking at Feuilly?” Courfeyrac says, conspiratorially.

“Feuilly,” Enjolras sighs.

“Yes?”

“Feuilly is the best.” He flails his arms in the air. “He’s just so…so…Feuilly.”

Courfeyrac fights the urge to laugh. He loses. “You should go talk to him.”

Enjolras hiccups a little. “But I’m drunk.”

“So?”

Tears well up in his eyes. “He’s never seen me drunk before.”

Courfeyrac rubs his temples. “No one’s seen you drunk before.”

“Except you.”

“It’s just as funny as it was eight years ago,” Courfeyrac assures him. “No need to worry.”

Enjolras frowns and heads off, presumably to empty his stomach out of a window. Now to execute the next step in the plan.

Combeferre is unavailable for the evening, and so is Jehan. Bahorel has better things to do than play nursemaid to Enjolras, and Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire had long since left for better wine and more oysters. Courfeyrac heads for Feuilly, who sits beside Bahorel and occasionally shoves the man off.

“Hey, can I ask a favor?” Courfeyrac says, making what Marius calls a “sad puppy” face.

Feuilly shrugs, but before he can reply, Bahorel thumps the table.

“I am free for favors tonight,” Bahorel says, crossing his arms and looking well-pleased with himself. “Speak and make your case.”

This was not the plan. “Enjolras needs to be brought home, and I have a wayward roommate to locate tonight.”

“I shall do it!” Bahorel crows. “I shall bring the lightweight home, and make sure he does not pick a fight with anyone on the way. Only I have that right, being able to hold my liquor.”

Feuilly snorts. “Have fun.”

“Don’t you want to do it?” Courfeyrac says, trying not to sound too deflated.

Bahorel interrupts. It is the nature of Bahorel to interrupt. He slaps Feuilly on the back. “The man has work in the morning. Leave him be. I can handle the lightweight.”

And with that, he steers Enjolras out of the room, pausing only to finish the remains of his wine glass.

This plan doesn’t go well either.

-

Courfeyrac flings himself at Combeferre just as he walks out of the gates of the medical school. In hindsight, it is a bad idea, since Combeferre’s sleeves are covered with dried blood and he can feel Jehan’s glare from halfway across Paris. Combeferre untangles them with clinical detachment.

“What is it?” Combeferre inquires, rubbing his eyes from underneath his glasses. He sounds far too calm about it.

“We tried everything!” Heads turn and people glance. Courfeyrac glares at all of them and continues. “We wrote fake confession letters and mailed them! Jehan even learned to imitate Enjolras’ handwriting.”

Combeferre doesn’t look distressed. In fact, Courfeyrac swears he sees amusement in the man’s eyes.

Courfeyrac starts listing off schemes on his fingers. “We brought Enjolras to Feuilly’s workplace, we got him drunk, we drugged their tea, we even got someone to sing a serenade. Nothing worked!” He throws himself at Combeferre again. “Nothing!”

“Have you tried asking them about their feelings?”

“But Combeferre, there’s no _subtlety_ in that. We can’t let them know that we’re scheming. They’d be offended.”

“I think you should give it a try,” Combeferre said stubbornly.

“But—”

“—just give it a try.”

“Fine. On your own head be it!”

-

Courfeyrac knocks on Enjolras’ door, doing his best to look pleasant and polite, just a concerned friend who wishes him happiness. He steps away, unwilling to let the door smack him in the face like the last time he visited.

Only Enjolras doesn’t answer the door as soon as possible, like the last time he visited. He hears scuffling and a muffled “just a minute!” followed by laughter and footsteps.

Enjolras opens the door beaming. “Come in, come in!” he says, and his cheeks are flushed and his hair is in disarray.

“I need to talk to you. It’s important,” Courfeyrac says as Enjolras leads him inside. Feuilly is sitting on the armchair, nose buried in a book that Courfeyrac is pretty sure came from Combeferre’s library. He nods to Courfeyrac once before replacing his nose in the book where it belongs.

“You were saying?” Enjolras inquires, sitting down and shoving a cold cup of tea in Courfeyrac’s general direction with all the finesse of a wild boar.

“Ah, actually, I need to talk to you in private. Sorry, Feuilly,” Courfeyrac says, doing his best sympathetic wince. He makes a mental vow: if all goes well, he will leave the happy couple alone for a week. Or a day. Or a few hours. Maybe. If he has the self-restraint.

“No problem at all,” Feuilly says, putting the book down and marking his page carefully with a bookmark. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.” He stands up, kisses Enjolras on the cheek, and leaves.

Courfeyrac can pinpoint the exact moment his jaw drops.

Enjolras, the _menace_ , has the nerve to look happy, as if Courfeyrac had not spent the last few months trying to bring about this exact situation—

—He’s going to strangle Enjolras one of these days.

“Since when?” he says, frantically gesturing in the direction of Enjolras’ bedroom door. “What? How? Huh?!”

Enjolras gives him the polite confusion look. It is only by immense strength of will that Courfeyrac does not chuck his teacup at his immaculate blond head.

He takes a deep breath instead. “You. Feuilly. When?!”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, and his cheeks flush red. “Ah, a few months ago. It’s been…nice.”

“And why didn’t you tell us?” Courfeyrac can barely get the words out through gritted teeth.

“I told Combeferre.”

“You told Combeferre.” His voice is flat.

“Yes, when it started.” Enjolras’ brow furrows. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looks genuinely surprised. “I told him to tell you.”

“You told him to tell me?”

Enjolras frowns, this time. “Oh. Well, Combeferre has the details. You can ask him.”

Courfeyrac stands up, breathing heavily. “Yes. We need to have a talk, Combeferre and I. A very long talk. Thank you for the tea.” He shoves the teacup back into Enjolras’ hands. “Good luck with your canoodling!”

Courfeyrac slams the door behind him, tearing at his hair in frustration. Through the thin walls, he hears Enjolras’ affronted voice.

“We do not canoodle, thank you very much!”


End file.
